Pentagram City was in ruins.
Once a chaotic but thriving den of sin, the city now lay in smoldering devastation. Towers that once scraped the blood-red sky were now skeletal husks, their metal frames twisted and shattered. Streets once packed with the wicked and the damned were now cracked and broken, lined with crumbling buildings and overturned vehicles. The neon signs that had once bathed the city in eerie, artificial light flickered weakly or had gone completely dark, leaving an unsettling gloom over the shattered landscape.
Screams filled the air, raw and unrelenting. Sinners ran, their desperation carving a frenzied rhythm into the destruction, but it was futile. Their pursuers were not the usual fiendish miscreants of Pentagram City—these were something far worse.
The demons that tore through the streets were unlike anything Hell had ever known, twisted horrors that bore the unmistakable taint of another world. Their grotesque forms slithered, lurched, and sprinted after the fleeing souls, their jagged teeth and glowing eyes promising fates worse than death. They were creatures of Spawn's universe—hellish abominations shaped by suffering, fueled by unrelenting malice, and untethered from the balance that had long governed Hell's domains.
A monstrous figure with elongated limbs and a gaping maw lunged at a shrieking woman, its claws raking across her back as she fell, her cry silenced by the sickening crunch of bone. Another demon, its body covered in writhing chains, wrapped a screaming imp in its grasp and yanked—flesh tore, and blood sprayed onto the shattered pavement.
There was no order, no rules—only carnage.
Pentagram City had been gutted, and Hell itself had never felt so powerless.
The other rings of Hell fared no better.
In the Ring of Greed, Mammon's domain lay in tatters. Once a gaudy, golden kingdom of excess and indulgence, the streets were now littered with burning wreckage, shattered treasures, and the remnants of his once-proud empire. His prized amusement park, LooLoo Land, once a beacon of grotesque entertainment, had been reduced to a nightmarish wasteland. The towering attractions were now crumbling hazards—roller coasters twisted into unholy shapes, Ferris wheel cabins dangled precariously from snapped cables, and the flashing lights of the carnival games flickered and died, consumed by the encroaching destruction.
And at the center of it all, Mammon fought for his life.
The King of Greed, typically seen as little more than a self-absorbed showman, had shed his flamboyant veneer, revealing his true demonic form. He tore through the invading demons with unchecked fury.
But it wasn't enough.
For every fiend he shredded, two more took its place. The invaders were relentless, their grotesque forms unlike any demon that had ever roamed Hell's rings. These creatures, twisted and horrific, were of another world—Spawn's world. They came not to conquer but to consume, their hunger insatiable, their violence unending.
Mammon roared as he ripped a massive, horned beast in half, its blackened blood splattering across the remains of his fortune. But even in his full power, he was struggling. His kingdom—his wealth, his entertainment, his very identity—was being torn apart before his eyes, and all his power, all his riches, meant nothing against the onslaught.
The King of Greed was used to being the one taking from others. Now, for the first time in his existence, everything was being taken from him.
The Ring of Gluttony had become a feeding ground—but not for the demons who once indulged in its excess.
Bee, the Queen of Gluttony, fought with everything she had. Her once-vibrant city, a kingdom of endless feasts and overflowing indulgence, had become a slaughterhouse. The grand banquet halls lay in ruin, their golden tables overturned, fountains of wine now running red with blood. The streets, once packed with revelers, were littered with torn bodies and the shattered remains of indulgence.
In her full demon form, Bee was a sight to behold. Her massive, chitinous wings beat furiously, sending gusts of wind strong enough to knock the smaller creatures back. Her glowing eyes burned with fury, her mouth dripping with venom as she sank her fangs into one of the monstrous invaders, ripping it apart with a sickening crunch. She lashed out with her claws, tearing through another, sending its black ichor splattering across the honeycomb streets.
But it wasn't enough.
The creatures from Spawn's world were unlike anything she had ever faced. They didn't hunger for food or drink—they craved only destruction. They tore through her city with reckless abandon, their grotesque, shifting forms resistant to her venom, unfazed by her strength. Some of them moved too fast, slipping past her defenses and ripping through her subjects before she could react.
She watched in horror as one of her most loyal chefs, a portly demon with four arms, was dragged screaming into the shadows, his pleas silenced by a wet, sickening crunch. A massive, horned abomination ripped through a lavish restaurant, sending walls and chandeliers crashing down upon the helpless sinners inside.
Bee roared in defiance, her massive wings flaring out as she slammed one of the beasts into the ground, crushing it beneath her colossal strength. But for every monster she felled, more poured in like an unrelenting tide.
Her city—her kingdom of excess and pleasure—was being torn apart, devoured not by hunger, but by something far worse.
The Lust Ring was drowning in carnage.
Once a realm of decadence and desire, Asmodeus' kingdom now burned, its once-glamorous skyline tainted by thick plumes of smoke. The neon glow of its sinful nightlife was flickering, overwhelmed by the raging infernos consuming the towering pleasure palaces. The air, once filled with music and laughter, now carried only screams and the sickening sounds of flesh being torn apart.
At the center of the chaos, Asmodeus fought with everything he could muster.
In his full demon form, he was a colossal titan of passion and power, his body coiled through the wreckage of his beloved city. His feathers, usually dazzling with an enchanting glow, were now streaked with blood—some of it his own. His razor-sharp claws tore through one of the invading creatures, splitting it in half, its grotesque body dissolving into a puddle of writhing, black ichor.
But it wasn't enough.
The demons that ripped through his domain were unlike any he had ever faced. They didn't lust, didn't indulge, didn't revel—they only destroyed. Asmodeus slammed his massive tail into a group of them, sending their twisted forms crashing through a burning club, but more swarmed in, climbing over the wreckage with unnatural speed.
He caught a glimpse of his people running, screaming—the patrons of his once-great city, the workers who had dedicated themselves to the art of pleasure, all fleeing in terror. He tried to shield them, but even his vast form couldn't cover all of them. A shriek of agony tore through the air as one of his performers—a beautiful, winged demoness with golden eyes—was ripped from the sky, her body vanishing into the mass of writhing horrors below.
Rage surged through Asmodeus, his usually charming voice replaced with an unearthly roar. He lashed out, flames bursting from his body, incinerating several of the creatures in an instant. But for every monster he burned away, more took their place.
His kingdom of passion and pleasure was falling apart, and no matter how hard he fought, he couldn't stop the demons from tearing through his city.
The Ring of Wrath was a warzone.
Unlike the other rings, where decadence and indulgence had been torn asunder, Wrath had always been built for battle. Its land was rugged, its inhabitants hardened, and its ruler—the embodiment of rage itself—stood at the forefront of the carnage.
Satan, in his draconic form, loomed over the battlefield like an unstoppable force of destruction.
His massive, crimson-scaled body tore through the invading demons with ruthless efficiency. His horned head unleashed guttural roars that shook the battlefield. His clawed hands, each the size of a warhorse, crushed enemies beneath their weight. With each swing of his massive tail, entire clusters of twisted monstrosities were sent flying, their grotesque bodies shattered against the jagged cliffs of Wrath.
Yet, despite his raw power, the enemy was endless.
No matter how many of the invading horrors he burned, crushed, or eviscerated, more emerged from the shadows, from the broken earth, from the very air itself.
They were unnatural. These were not the warriors of Hell, not the brutish fighters or ambitious challengers Satan had spent eons crushing underfoot. These demons were feral, mindless, and insatiable, moving like an unstoppable plague. They did not challenge him with strategy—they simply overwhelmed.
From the battlefield, his warriors fought—berserkers, warlords, and champions, all clashing against the unrelenting tide. But for every Wrathful demon that stood their ground, three were torn apart, their screams lost in the chaos.
Satan snarled, his molten eyes narrowing as he took to the skies, his massive wings blotting out the blood-red sky above. With one deep inhale, he unleashed a torrent of hellfire, scorching the battlefield below, reducing hundreds of the invading creatures to smoldering ash. The inferno roared, consuming everything in its wake.
For a moment, silence.
Then, movement.
Through the burning wreckage, more of the creatures emerged, charred but still standing. Their bodies, twisted and grotesque, regenerated before his eyes, reshaping themselves from the molten ruin.
Satan's rage boiled over. His clawed hands clenched, his tail slammed into the cracked earth, sending shockwaves through the battlefield. This was not a war of strength. This was a war of attrition. And for the first time in an eternity, Satan realized he might not be the one left standing.
The battlefield raged around him, but Satan remained unshaken. His massive claws tore through another wave of grotesque invaders, his fangs bared in unrelenting fury. The Wrathful were falling, but they fought tooth and nail, refusing to surrender to the monstrosities overrunning their ring.
Then, the ground trembled.
A guttural snarl ripped through the air, deeper and more monstrous than the rest. A particularly large demon—far more twisted and grotesque than the others—lunged at Satan. Its body was a mass of shifting, writhing flesh, multiple mouths gaping open across its torso, each one filled with jagged, uneven teeth dripping with black ichor.
Satan barely had time to react before it slammed into him with a force that cracked the earth beneath them. The beast's clawed hands wrapped around his throat, its gaping maw descending to sink its teeth into his jugular.
But before it could bite—
A torrent of hellfire roared through the battlefield, striking the demon with precision, engulfing it in flames so intense that its flesh blistered and blackened instantly. The abomination let out a guttural shriek, writhing in agony as the fire devoured it from the inside out.
Satan shoved the charred corpse off him, shaking the embers from his scales as he turned his head toward the source of the attack.
Floating just above the battlefield, his form wreathed in fire and power, was Lucifer.
The Morningstar's flaming wings beat with a controlled fury, his eyes glowing like twin stars of molten rage. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by a stern, knowing expression.
"Are you alright?" Lucifer asked, his voice calm but edged with tension.
Satan rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck with a low growl. "I'm fine," he rumbled, flexing his claws. His wounds, if any, were superficial—but the sheer numbers of these creatures, their unrelenting nature, was starting to test even him.
Lucifer nodded, but his eyes drifted upward, his expression shifting. A new presence had emerged. Something powerful. Something familiar.
Satan followed his gaze, and for a brief moment, the battlefield seemed to still.
High above them, standing atop the ruins of a shattered tower, a dark silhouette loomed.
Against the blood-red sky, Spawn stood.
With a shout of fury, Spawn shot up from the cathedral floor, his wings flaring wide, their radiant glow casting long, fractured shadows across the stone walls.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling with the lingering terror of a battle that had never happened. His clawed hands clenched into fists, the sensation of flesh and blood still phantom on his fingertips, the screams of the Wrathful still ringing in his ears.
His glowing green eyes darted around the darkened ruins, scanning the hollow, desolate space. No demons. No war. No Lucifer. No Satan. Just dust, broken pews, and the cold silence of the abandoned cathedral.
It had been a dream.
Spawn exhaled sharply, his body still tense, his wings twitching involuntarily. He had been prone to nightmares—but not like this. He had seen Hell, lived through horrors far worse than any mortal could imagine. Yet since arriving on Earth, these dreams had become relentless.
Visions of Hell in ruin. Heaven in chaos. His enemies—old and new—gathering, waiting, preparing. He saw his allies falling. Charlie. Vaggie. Angel. Blitzo. The others. The ones who had given him something resembling purpose again.
And through it all, there was always himself. Trapped. Torn between what he had become and what he used to be.
With a frustrated growl, he ran a clawed hand over his face, trying to shake the lingering unease. But it clung to him, the way the divine energy still coursed through his veins—foreign, unwanted, and impossible to ignore.
He looked down at his hands, his body still wrapped in the divine glow he had been forced to take on. His wings flexed slightly, the light pulsing along their edges, refusing to fade.
He was still in his divine form. Still trapped in this sick joke of power.
Spawn let out a low, bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "Figures."
Another dream. Another reminder.
And no closer to a way out.
The cathedral remained cloaked in darkness, the faint moonlight filtering through the shattered stained glass, casting fractured patterns across the cold stone floor. It was still nighttime.
Spawn knew he wouldn't be getting back to sleep. Not after that. Not after any of them.
With a low, irritated sigh, he pushed himself to his feet, his wings folding in close to his back. The lingering tension from the nightmare still clung to him, an unwelcome weight pressing against his skull. He needed to clear his head.
Then, from outside, a voice broke through the silence.
It was raspy, wild, and carried the unmistakable feverish cadence of a madman.
"And the angel of the Lord came unto me!"
Spawn's glowing green eyes narrowed. Slowly, he stepped toward one of the broken windows, peering out into the dimly lit streets below.
There, standing beneath a flickering streetlamp, was a homeless man, his tattered coat flapping in the night breeze. He preached to an audience of none, his arms raised to the heavens, his voice echoing through the empty streets.
"Snatching me up from my place of slumber
And took me on high and higher still. Until we moved to the spaces betwixt the air itself!"
Spawn arched a brow. The hell is this guy on about?
The man continued unabated, his face twisted in divine fervor, his eyes wide with an almost manic intensity.
"And he brought me into the vast farmlands of our own Midwest! And as we descended, cries of impending doom rose from the soil! One thousand—nay, a million voices full of fear!"
His voice rose to a hysterical pitch, his hands shaking, his body swaying as though caught between a vision and madness.
"And terror possessed me then! And I begged the Angel of the Lord, 'What are these tortured screams?!' And the angel said unto me… 'These are the cries of the carrots! The cries of the carrots!'"
Spawn blinked. The… what?
"You see, Reverend Maynard, tomorrow is harvest day! And to them, it is the holocaust!"
The man clutched his chest, as if the weight of the revelation was too much to bear.
"And I sprang from my slumber, drenched in sweat! Like the tears of one million terrified brothers! And I roared, 'Hear me now! I have seen the light!' They have a consciousness! They have a life! They have a soul!"
Spawn simply stared, his expression unreadable.
"Damn you! Let the rabbits wear glasses! Save our brothers! Can I get an amen? Can I get a hallelujah?"
Silence.
The street was empty. There was no congregation, no audience—only the night, cold and indifferent.
The man lowered his arms, looking around expectantly, as though waiting for some grand response from the heavens themselves. None came.
Back inside the cathedral, Spawn exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "Fucking Hell."
He shook his head, muttering under his breath as he turned away from the window.
"Crazy bastard."
Back in his old life, Spawn had grown accustomed to the strange ramblings of the homeless. Eccentric was putting it lightly—some of them claimed to be prophets, others ranted about government conspiracies, and some just shouted nonsense at the sky.
He had seen it all.
Yet, no matter how many times he had witnessed it, it never stopped sounding completely insane.
This wasn't the first time he had heard a street preacher screaming into the void, convinced they had seen some divine revelation. Back in Rat City, they came and went like the tides—self-proclaimed messiahs, holy warriors, prophets of doom.
But none of them ever stayed long.
Because once they caught wind of him—of Spawn—they left.
They would step into his territory, bibles clutched in shaking hands, fire and brimstone dripping from their lips. They'd preach to the lost souls of the alleyways, calling for redemption, for salvation. But the moment their eyes fell on him, on the tattered red cloak, the glowing green eyes staring from the darkness, the grotesque silhouette that didn't belong in this world or the next—
Their sermons ended.
Their faith, so strong moments before, wavered.
And they left. Quickly.
Some muttered prayers under their breath as they backed away. Others simply turned and ran, their divine calling suddenly not worth it anymore.
Spawn sat in the abandoned cathedral, his gaze fixed on the dust-laden floor, thoughts turning like gears in a rusted machine. He needed a plan.
He couldn't stay here forever. The cathedral was isolated, safe for now, but it wasn't a solution—just a temporary refuge. If he wanted to return to Hell, he had to figure out how to suppress his divine energy.
And for that, he needed power.
His first instinct had been the obvious one—harvesting sin.
In his world, the sheer weight of human corruption could be twisted into power, something he could absorb, convert into strength. And given that this was Los Angeles, of all places, he had assumed that finding sin wouldn't be a problem.
And he had been right.
It took him less than a night to see how filthy this place was. Greed, lust, wrath, envy— it festered here, tangled in the neon glow of city lights, hidden behind every backroom deal, every false smile, every desperate grab for power or pleasure.
If his New York was bad, this place was worse.
And yet… nothing.
Every time he tried to pull the sin from the city, to siphon its energy into himself, he felt something block him. A force, unseen but undeniable.
Something was feeding on the sin before he could reach it.
Spawn's glowing green eyes narrowed. That wasn't normal. He had harvested entire pockets of corruption before, drained the worst of humanity dry when he needed to—but here, something was already claiming it. Consuming it.
Something else was feeding.
And if that was the case, he wasn't alone.
That wasn't to say Spawn had no way of harvesting sin at all.
Even with something blocking him from absorbing the city's corruption all at once, he could still feel it in every passerby. The sin here was thick, clinging to people like a second skin—greed woven into expensive suits, lust dripping off clubgoers, wrath simmering beneath clenched fists and forced smiles. Every interaction, every selfish decision, every hidden crime—it all carried weight.
He could take it. Slowly.
But that was the problem. Slow.
Pulling sin from individuals, one at a time, was like taking a drop of water from the ocean. It would take forever to get what he needed—enough power to suppress the divine energy still coursing through him, keeping him trapped in this form, cut off from Hell.
Still… if that's what it took, he'd do it.
He wasn't in a rush for his own sake. This wasn't about him. It was about them.
The people he had left behind in Hell. The ones who had given him a place, a purpose—something he hadn't had in what felt like an eternity. Charlie. Vaggie. Angel. Blitzo.
They were in danger, and he wasn't there to help.
If it took him days, weeks, months to build up enough power, so be it.
He'd take as long as it took.
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